The Song Remains the Same
by V. Laike
Summary: Sam's heart aches in his chest to hear Dean sounding so broken, begging for help he doesn't believe will come.


**Warnings & Author's Notes:** Post-NRftW. On September 18, this will, I have no doubt, be Jossed into AU oblivion.  
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, they're not mine. Kripke & Co. have not seen fit to gift them to me, but I'm still available for any hug therapy that might be necessary.

Many, many thanks to izhilzha, my Beta of WIN \0, who in spite of her own RL responsibilities, will read and re-read my stuff until I'm sure she's buggy in the head. Also, kalquessa, the Beta of Squee, who, if I listen to her too often, will have me posting just about anything I send her way.

* * *

THE SONG REMAINS THE SAME

by

V. Laike

_**Sam! Help me! Please! Help me, Sammy! Sam!**_

His throat is wrecked from screaming, but it's all he can do. His cries echo in the barren emptiness as unbearable pain sears through him. Vicious hooks tear through his body, ripping flesh and grinding against bone. Chains and shackles hold him suspended in the void. He's surrounded, suffocated, by darkness, and all that exists is pain and the sound of his own screams.

"_Dean. I'm here, Dean. I can hear you. You're not alone."_

A voice—so much like Sam's, the _real_ Sam's—reaches him through the chasm. He chokes back a sob, longing for the words to be true, knowing that they're not.

A light flashes before his clenched eyes, but it's not the painful, sparking cracks of light he's come to expect. This is a soft, warm glow that doesn't fade.

_It'satrickit'satrickit'satrick _because this aloneness and torment are forever.

"_I'm here, Dean. I'm not going anywhere."_

Dean lets another sob escape as he turns his head, the only part of his body he can move. The lightness he feels is an illusion; he won't believe the lie.

"_You can move, Dean. You can move."_

He can't, and his eyes fly open as he feels something touch him, a cool sensation stroking his face. He _feels_, and it doesn't hurt. There's pressure on his chest, but it doesn't _crush_ him. He gasps for breath because _it'satrickit'satrick_, but he can't scream anymore.

"No! No. Somebody help me." The words are strangled, grated and raw. He can hear himself, broken, begging, pleading, and he knows it's useless. He's been here forever, so long that he's starting to believe that he can actually see Sam in front of him, nodding. And he knows it's a lie.

"_I will, Dean. I'll help you. I've got you. I'm here."_

And then there's something rubbing his ankles. Not the shackles that bite into his skin and tear his flesh, but something warm, soothing, and the shackles are gone.

"_See? Nothing there. You feel that? You can move."_

Hands—not claws or talons or the sharp, jagged bones that have tortured him for an eternity, but _hands_—are kneading the tight, aching muscles in his calves. The hands work their way up to his thighs and _nonononono_ he waits for them rip at him, strip him, tear him apart, but they don't. They work their way back down, and then his legs are moving—they're _moving_—and he feels his muscles start to relax.

The easy, soothing words in Sam's voice continue, but Dean still doesn't dare hope. He doesn't _know. _He can't work up the energy to scream; he can only draw in rapid breaths, trying to control his panic.

Then the hands—warm, strong, _human_ hands—rub soothing circles on his side, and he realizes the hook is gone. The massage of his shoulder is gloriously pain-free, and he thinks maybe Sam's voice isn't lying to him after all.

"_Feel that, Dean? Nothing there. No hooks, no chains. You're okay. Feel that? You're not alone."_

_Not alone. _

Dean allows his eyes to slide closed, and he succeeds in calming his breathing. What would happen if he let himself hope? Hope that maybe, if he asks for Sam, Sam will come. And so he whispers, "Please, help me, Sam."

And then he feels the warm, solid, gentle hands take away the shackles on his wrists, rubbing the skin and healing the bloody rawness that was there only moments before. Cool softness strokes up and down one arm, then the other, and then the hands are massaging the aching muscles of his arms as well. Finally, the hands help him flex his arms and bend his elbows, and Dean realizes that the shackles and chains and hooks are gone, have been gone for a while now.

And he hears Sam's voice say, _"I'm here. You're not alone. You can move. See? You can move."_

_Not alone. _

And as everything falls away, Dean just floats there in the pain-free limbo that he thinks maybe—just maybe—his brother created.

When Dean finally blinks his eyes open, his mind is clear and coherent, but his body is exhausted, his throat is raw, and he doesn't feel like he's slept much at all. Then he registers the grip on his hand and realizes something must be wrong.

"Sam?" he says with a rasp, and there's a moment of fear that his brother won't answer.

"Yeah, it's me. I'm here."

"Of course you're here. Where else would you be?" Seriously, because Sam hasn't willingly let Dean out of his sight for more than twenty minutes at a time since . . . Dean's return.

Sam offers a small smile.

Dean lifts their hands, clasped palm to palm, thumbs entwined. Another nightmare, then, though the specifics escape him. Probably for the best. "Dude, are you holding my hand?"

"No," Sam says, and Dean cocks an eyebrow. "You want some water?"

Dean nods wearily. Sam releases his grip, and Dean tries to sit up, but he doesn't make it very far. He's exhausted, worn out, muscles quivering like he's given them an isometric workout.

Sam uncaps a nearby water bottle and lifts Dean's head, and Dean is inwardly both glad for the help and angry with himself that it's necessary. Sam tips the bottle, pouring the clear liquid into his brother's mouth. Dean swallows eagerly; he can't remember ever tasting anything so good, so sweet and cool and refreshing. It soothes his throat and quenches a thirst he's only now aware of. When he's had his fill, he tiredly pushes it away.

"Okay, enough." It's not enough, not nearly enough, but he's too wiped out to continue. "Thanks."

Sam lays Dean's head back on the pillow and re-caps the bottle. "Do you remember anything?" Sam asks quietly without meeting Dean's eye.

Dean forces a blankly neutral look at his brother. "About what?" he asks, but he knows where this is going, and he's just too freakin' beat to want to figure out why Sam is freakin' bottle feeding him in the middle of the night.

Now Sam does look Dean in the eye, all compassion and understanding and worry. "About your nightmare."

_Darknesspainfearalone . . . _Dean releases a deep breath and shifts his gaze to the ceiling. "No."

Sam huffs in frustration. "Dean, maybe if you'd talk about it—"

"I said I don't remember." He tries to keep the anger out of his voice, but he can't help it. He can't remember what happened to him. He doesn't want to remember. He takes another deep breath and closes his eyes.

Sam sighs. "Okay," he says softly.

"Okay." Dean exhales the word as he allows himself to drift back to sleep.

"Hey, don't go to sleep yet. We need to move you."

Dean drags his eyes open in confusion. "What?"

"Don't go to sleep on your back."

"Why not?" Sam's here, the pain is gone, and they both need the rest. What more could either of them ask for?

Sam presses his lips together in that stubborn, pissed off expression he has. "Because you'll sleep better on your side."

Dean lifts his eyebrows in puzzlement. "I will?"

"Trust me on this." The expression on Sam's face is matter-of-fact and gives away nothing of what Dean suspects he's holding back. But he looks like he knows what he's talking about, and it's too late—or too early—to argue.

Dean shrugs. "Okay." He turns stiffly, ready to settle into his favorite sleeping position on his stomach, but that's not good enough for Sam either.

"No, Dean. Your side. Jerk."

Damn, Sammy's being picky. Okay, fine. "Bitch," Dean mutters as he shifts again, this time settling on his side so that he is facing Sam. He tucks one hand up under the pillow, eyes blinking open when he realizes his knife is missing. He eyes Sam, but Sam meets his gaze steadily, and Dean understands. Until Dean gets these night terrors under control, Sam can't allow anything that might let Dean hurt himself . . . or Sam. Dean hates it, but he understands.

After a moment, Dean closes his eyes and releases a weary sigh. He has one arm tucked under the pillow and the other lying in front of him, and his legs are bent at the knees, one resting higher than the other. This position seems acceptable to Sam, and Dean refuses to contemplate why his sleeping position is of such great concern to his brother. Truth be told, he's more comfortable this way, knowing he can move if he wants to, uninhibited by . . .

"You want the blankets back?" Sam asks.

Without opening his eyes, Dean shakes his head, then reconsiders. "Just the sheet."

He hears the rustle of bedding as Sam separates the sheet from the other blankets and lays it lightly across Dean up to his waist. Then he hears the springs creek as Sam sits on the bed opposite.

"You good?"

Dean releases a deep sigh. "'M good."

"Can I turn off the light?"

Dean nods.

Sam clicks off the light, and behind his lids, Dean sees the room fall into darkness. He listens as Sam maneuvers through the shadows, and _what if Sam's not here? What if this isn't real?_

"Sammy?"

"Yeah." Sam's tone is casual, like nothing out of the ordinary—the _before_ ordinary—has happened.

Dean doesn't reply. He doesn't need to.

"I'm here, Dean. You're not alone."

_Not alone._

Sam took the bed closest to the door when they checked in, and he had to cross the room to turn off the lamp. But Dean feels his brother move around the bed to pass close to him before climbing under his own covers. Dean feels Sam's warm, solid, strong, gentle, human hand grasp his shoulder. Sam is here. _Here_, and Dean needs to hold onto that. He raises his hand toward his brother, and Sam clasps it with his own, palm to palm, thumbs entwined. Sam squeezes Dean's hand reassuringly.

Dean knows Sam would hold his hand all night if necessary—has held his hand all night—and so he releases his grip. "Get some sleep, Sam."

"Dude, you're the one who woke me." There's a smile in his voice, in spite of the number of times they've gone through this already.

"Yeah. Sorry about that."

"Don't mention it."

He hears Sam climb into bed.

"Hey, Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks." Dean hopes Sam understands everything that one tiredly uttered word carries.

"Sure, man. I hear ya."

* * *

The nights without a hunt are the hardest.

He no longer lies still in the bed when he awakens to Dean's screams, quietly letting the tears slide down his face as the sounds of terror, pain, and loneliness fade in the waking world.

Now he startles awake, throws off his blankets, and dashes to the bathroom for a cool cloth, snatching up a bottle of water as he re-enters the main room. He feels no guilt at his relief that the screams stay with him on his hurried trek around the room, and he says in a calm, comforting, stern voice, "Dean. I'm here, Dean. I can hear you. You're not alone."

He crosses the room and snaps on a light, dim enough to be comforting, but bright enough to allow him to see. He places the cloth and water within easy reach. Dean lies on his back on the bed, muscles rigid, eyes and fists clenched tight. His arms lie stiffly away from his sides, his legs parted. Sam recognizes the position for what it imitates, and he knows what his brother is reliving.

"I'm here, Dean. I'm not going anywhere."

The screams give way to strangled sobs and low, plaintive moans as Dean turns his head, the only part of his body he thinks he can move. Sam pulls the bedclothes away, disentangling Dean from the unnecessary constriction.

"You can move, Dean. You can move."

Sam gently wipes the sweat and tears from Dean's face with the cool cloth, and green eyes fly open at the touch. Sam places a hand on Dean's chest as Dean's breath hitches and he stares at Sam, through Sam, as if he can't see him for the waking nightmare that traps him.

"No! No. Somebody help me." Dean's voice can no longer sustain the screams; he's too hoarse, and he sounds like his throat has been torn raw, like his vocal chords might very well be bleeding. Sam's heart aches in his chest to hear Dean sounding so broken, begging for help he doesn't believe will come.

Sam nods, even though he doubts Dean sees it. "I will, Dean. I'll help you. I've got you. I'm here."

He starts with Dean's legs, gently rubbing away the phantom sensation of shackles around his ankles. "See? Nothing there. You feel that? You can move." He massages tight muscles in Dean's calves and thighs, careful not to make Dean feel too vulnerable. He bends each of Dean's legs in turn, as if he is exercising a coma patient. Bit by bit, Dean's legs relax. Sam continues his mantra, and Dean's pleas quiet from a constant sob to a barely controlled, panicked panting.

He rubs soothing circles on Dean's side and massages his shoulder where he remembers seeing the large, cruel hooks that held Dean immobile. "Feel that, Dean? Nothing there. No hooks, no chains. You're okay. Feel that? You're not alone."

By the time Sam starts on Dean's arms, Dean's eyes have slid closed, and his breathing, though still rapid, is steadier, less harsh. His heartbreaking entreaties have subsided to an intermittent rasping whisper of "Please" or "Help me" or "Sam." As with Dean's ankles, Sam rubs Dean's wrists to erase the imaginary shackles still clamped in place. He wipes down each arm in turn with the damp cloth, then one arm at a time he massages tired muscles and flexes Dean's elbows, continually reminding Dean, "I'm here. You're not alone. You can move. See? You can move."

Eventually, Dean's breathing eases, the pleading stops altogether, and Dean rests. Sam keeps hold of Dean's hand, palm to palm, thumbs entwined, as if they're getting ready to arm wrestle.

When Dean finally blinks his eyes open, they're clear and coherent.

"Sam?" Dean's voice is rough like sandpaper, but Sam can't miss the note of hopeful hesitancy there.

"Yeah, it's me. I'm here."

"Of course you're here. Where else would you be?" Dean's exhausted attempt at bravado falls far short of the real thing.

Sam offers a small smile and hopes that Dean will settle for the night now.

"Dude, are you holding my hand?" Dean lifts their clasped hands.

"No," Sam says, and Dean cocks an eyebrow. It's been a running joke with them ever since the first night, when Sam's hand had gone cramped and numb from Dean's clutching it so tightly all night. When Dean had awoken in the morning, he remembered nothing of his nightmare and had feigned indignation at the suggestion that he'd needed Sam to hold his hand. But his eyes told a different story; there had been no mistaking the gratitude there. "You want some water?"

Dean nods lethargically. Sam releases his grip, and Dean tries to sit up, but he doesn't make it very far. He's exhausted, worn out, and Sam knows as well as anyone that the stress placed on the body during such a vivid dream is as real as any stress endured in the waking world.

Sam uncaps the water bottle and lifts Dean's head from the pillow with one hand as he tips the bottle, pouring the refreshing liquid into his brother's mouth with the other. Dean swallows eagerly, and when he's had his fill, tiredly pushes it away. "Okay, enough. Thanks."

Sam lays Dean's head back on the pillow and re-caps the bottle. He feels like a son of a bitch for what he's about to do, and he can't look Dean in the eye. But he has to know what else happened to Dean while he was in Hell—it might help them figure out where to go from here. And if taking advantage of Dean's exhaustion makes getting that information easier, well . . . he's a sorry son of a bitch. "Do you remember anything?"

"About what?" Dean asks, and Sam recognizes the stubbornly blank, neutral expression that falls into place. It doesn't fool him for a minute.

Now Sam does look Dean in the eye, and he tries to convey as much non-threatening concern as he possibly can. He doesn't want to push, but he needs to know. "About your nightmare."

Something—pain? fear?—flashes in Dean's eyes, but he just sighs and shifts his gaze to the ceiling. "No." End of discussion.

Sam huffs in frustration. "Dean, maybe if you'd talk about it—"

"I said I don't remember." Anger dances around the edges of the words, not the anger of being caught in a lie, but anger at being pushed when he's not ready. Maybe he'll never be ready. Dean takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

Sam sighs. "Okay," he says softly.

"Okay." Dean exhales the word as he allows himself to drift back to sleep.

"Hey, don't go to sleep yet. We need to move you."

Dean drags his eyes open, confused. "What?"

"Don't go to sleep on your back."

"Why not?"

Sam presses his lips together in exasperation. Leave it to an exhausted, post-traumatic-flashback Dean to start giving him lip.

"Because you'll sleep better on your side."

"I will?"

"Trust me on this." One thing Sam has discovered over the course of several of these rough nights: if Dean sleeps in a position that allows him to mimic the pose forced on him in Hell, he is more likely to experience flashbacks. Sleeping on his side allows him the most opportunity for a relatively peaceful rest. All things considered.

Dean shrugs. "Okay." He turns stiffly, but Sam recognizes Dean's preferred sleep position as he starts to settle on his stomach.

"No, Dean. Your side. Jerk." Because Dean's sleeping on his stomach is only a mirror of sleeping on his back. And though the pillow helps muffle the screams, it also hinders the intake of air necessary for those screams.

"Bitch," Dean mutters as he shifts again, this time settling on his side so that he is facing Sam. He tucks one hand up under the pillow, eyes blinking open when he notices the absence of his bowie knife. He eyes Sam, and Sam meets his gaze steadily. They've agreed that until they get these night terrors under control, neither man wants to be put in a position where he might unintentionally hurt the other.

After a moment, Dean closes his eyes and releases a weary sigh. One arm is tucked under the pillow and the other lies in front of him on the mattress. His legs are bent at the knees, one resting higher than the other. Sam is content that this position is different enough and feels unhindered enough to allow for some much needed sleep.

"You want the blankets back?" Sam asks.

Without opening his eyes, Dean shakes his head, then seems to reconsider. "Just the sheet."

Sam separates the sheet from the other blankets and lays it across Dean up to his waist. Then he takes a seat on the bed opposite to watch his brother. "You good?"

Another deep sigh. "'M good."

"Can I turn off the light?"

Dean nods.

Sam crosses the room to click off the light, and the room falls into darkness. He maneuvers back through the shadows, but before he has a chance to climb into bed, he hears the hesitant, fearful voice.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah," Sam says casually, but Dean doesn't reply. "I'm here, Dean. You're not alone."

Though he's taken the bed closest to the door and closest to the lamp he just turned off, Sam gets into bed on the side closest to Dean's. On his way past his brother, Sam grasps Dean's shoulder to remind him of his presence. He's not surprised when he sees the shadow of Dean's hand reach up toward him in the dark. He takes it again in the palm-to-palm clasp and squeezes it reassuringly. He'd hold Dean's hand all night if that's what it took, but he knows Dean won't stand for it. Not anymore. Too chick-flicky.

Dean releases his grip. "Get some sleep, Sam."

"Dude, you're the one who woke me." He keeps his tone light and teasing. The crisis is past; they won't talk of it again.

"Yeah. Sorry about that."

"Don't mention it." Sam climbs into bed.

"Hey, Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

Sam knows the word carries so much more than should be possible in a single breath. "Sure, man. I hear ya."

_finis_


End file.
